Maybe I'll try something new, since everything else is changing.

Because I take it all back.  I'm still confused; I'm more confused.  I don't know what happened, what's happening, or what's going to happen, and you know what?
It's not fine.
I hide more than you know.  Some use pillows, some use smiles, I use words.  Lately, two words in particular. "It's fine."  But you guys.  It's not fine.  It's not always fine.  It won't always be fine.  There will be times and there have been times that I hide behind "It's fine" when it's not and can't you see?  Can't you sense the longing to be held?  I don't know what I'm doing anymore than Harry Potter did in the first half of the seventh book.  Oh Harry, remember when it was just you and me?  Remember how you used to be around any time I needed you?  But now you're collecting dust on the shelf of honor high in my room.  But that's the thing about shelves...  No matter how honorable, they'll still collect dust.
Maybe people are the same.  Maybe if we stripped away the pre-conceived notions we store endlessly about ourselves and each other, we'd see that we are all just shelves that collect dust unless we take the time to clear it away; we'd see that we are all Harry Potter wandering around the Forest of Dean, or Hester Prynn standing on the scaffolding, or even Guy Montag, wondering where on earth we went wrong.  Because who cares about the bindings, what we all care about are the words;  how caress looks like stroking and stroking sounds like love.  How jab seems to stick out and how stick jabs out as only a stick can do.  How book looks like two bookends on that shelf and how "shelves" seems to be holding the upper bit of the "h" and the "l".  Does anyone else see the meaning of a word in the word?  Does kitten look cute and cat look fat to you?  Do you see what I say, how see has two "e"s like our eyes [and so does eyes! with a "y" for a nose!] and "I" represents our id?  Because words are always what brings a story to life.  With however many letters, it not only represents but portrays an action or a description or a person!  Each word is an actor, and any mathematician [looks complicated, like complicated itself, do you see?] could tell you that things are equal on both sides of an equation so it must be true that all actors are words.
And I say it again, all actors are words.  Everyone who speaks is an actor, but everyone who doesn't is one as well.  Because who are we, but the ones portraying our own feelings?  Whether we are playing them well is not the question, but an entirely different matter together.

So Addy, I agree.  Actors are the epitome of society, but mostly just because anyone who feels and talks and writes is an actor.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

  -As You Like It, Act 2 Scene 7

So actually, it is fine.

It really is.  Because life is good and life is great and life is wonderful,
and someday none of it will matter.

kiss today goodbye,
the sweetness and the sorrow,
wish me luck
the same to you,
but I can't regret what I did for love.
Look, my eyes are dry,
the gift was ours to borrow;
it's as if we always knew.
And I won't forget what I did for love.

love always, laura.